


As Old As Your Omens

by prodigy



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Dubious Consent, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 09:10:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13096929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigy/pseuds/prodigy
Summary: There must have been a time when Francis was small, before he'd learnt to lie.





	As Old As Your Omens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nabielka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/gifts).



There must have been a time when Francis was small, before he'd learnt to lie--Richard couldn't remember it, now, but there must have been a time. He was a slight child, a laughing child, even when he was unhappy. Richard supposed there must have been many times when he was unhappy, to have done the things he'd done. He tried to summon that Francis to mind to ease his temper now; he tried to find one even further back in memory, an innocent, a boy who wept and skinned his knees, but memory did not serve him well when he thought of the jewels about Mariotta's throat. The furthest back he could go was about thirteen: and then, still, Francis had been a deceiver.

He'd taken a book, one of Father's books, and Eloise had kept his secret. They'd presented themselves empty-handed for Richard to dole out the penalty. Richard had dismissed Eloise--she left, disappointed, and lingered at the door until he snapped at her to go--and said, "What have you done, then?"

"I have stolen an apple from the Tree of Knowledge," said Francis, brightly, showing his wrists upturned. "Are you going to thrash me?"

"I'm of a mind to. You compare yourself to Adam, Francis?"

" _Richard._ " Francis coughed, or laughed. "I compare myself to Eve. What's it going to be?"

He'd struck Francis once across the pale underside of his arms, then pinched him and sent him off to return the book. Francis never did. Now Richard found himself wondering what the volume was that he'd taken--wondering if he'd ever known, or if he'd forgotten that too, along with everything else. It was strange what he recalled: his brother's words, the bright red mark he left on his skin. There was no accounting for what he did not. Time was passing. Time was gone. And Francis had stolen more than an apple.

* * *

Sybilla would have told him to go back. Sybilla _had_ told him to go back, Richard thought, in the broadest of senses; but then again, the time had long since departed when either Richard or indeed Francis still listened to their mother. He did not like to think of Francis in conjunction with her: not just because of her complicity with him, but because of the expressions of his that still reminded Richard of her, or perhaps vice versa--so stricken, so sly.

In a petty sense, it made him feel shut out. In a keener sense, it made him feel betrayed. That sensation was coming to be a familiar one, as far as his family was concerned. Of Mariotta--he did not like to think of Mariotta either, now. But he had never been much in command of his thoughts.

He fantasised about meeting Francis on the road, about apprehending him among his own men in a bloodbath. Such fantasies were remote enough and pathetic that when Francis did come to him, he did not spring into action; in fact, he sat up in bed.

He had no idea how Francis had gotten into the room. He was incurious. What mattered more was the ways out he had at his disposal. Richard numbered the door--barred, maybe Francis's doing--and the casement window, where Francis currently leaned. His eyes caught the scant light. He was not between Richard and his sword; he looked unarmed, which was meaningless. He said: "If you raise an alarm, I shall have to go, you know."

"Have you come here to kill me?" Richard's mouth was dry and his own words surprised him. He didn't move.

"And here I was under the impression that I was the fabulist. What an imagination you have, Richard. Wouldn't that," Francis stepped to one side, as if offering him a place at the window, as Richard rose half-dressed from his bed, "have been considerably easier while you were still asleep?"

Richard's sword came loose from its sheath with a noise that was loud to his ears. For a moment he wondered that it didn't wake the house. Then he knew that to be an illusion: their voices were quiet, everything that had transpired so far was quiet, and the household slumbered on.

"I've come here to talk," said Francis.

"Your very favourite. I'm not interested."

The chamber wasn't large. Francis crossed backwards to the barred door in half a dance step. "And yet," he said, "here we are."

In spite of his words, Francis was breathless. Whatever journey had taken him here, it had taken some of the spring out of him: mortal after all, Richard thought, and stepped sideways in response to block his path to the window. He would have to unbar the door in his flight, and in that time Richard would have him; or he would have to tumble across the bed, and Richard could stop him there too. It occurred to Richard that these possibilities were well within the scope of his brother's anticipation. He had come into Richard's chambers and offered himself--he might well have offered his wrists again. But he hadn't. There was always some other game. Richard raised his sword and levelled the point at Francis's chest.

Francis didn't spare it a glance. "You've no desire to run me through," he said.

"Don't I?" said Richard, forcing a smile. These things always came forced.

"You don't. You have too many things left to lecture me about." Francis's eyes flickered from Richard to the bedframe to the window. He walked, quite at ease, to the bed. "Sit down. Or I suppose I will."

Richard lunged for him; Francis ducked this without trouble, but there were only so many places he could go. He stepped confidently into the swing of Richard's blade--and Richard, cursing, pulled it back, his bluff called. Francis didn't smile, but he looked triumphant: an uncommon look on his face, thought Richard with barely the time to consider it. Then anger pushed the thought out of his mind, and he cracked Francis across the face with the hilt of his sword.

It set his heart to nervous excitement. He had never struck his brother so openly. Francis's body spun like a doll's; Richard hit him again with the pommel, which came away smeared with Francis's blood. Then he tossed the sword aside. It clattered away and he seized the front of Francis's shirt.

"Must we?" Francis was a little choked, but otherwise the soul of equanimity. He didn't struggle.

"I'm going to rouse the men on watch," said Richard under his breath, "and they're going to put you in chains."

"Am I to spend the rest of the night listening to you come up with more plans you've no intention of pursuing?" His brother's nose was running red; Richard had the absurd, remote urge to clean it up and tell him not to cry. But he looked faraway, and far from crying. "Sit down, Richard. I want to talk to you about Mariotta."

At mention of her name Richard struck him again, this time with the back of his other hand. Francis staggered and Richard threw him against the bed. He collapsed half onto it and, indeed, struggled to sit up. "--For God's sake. I didn't come here to boast of a conquest."

"I don't care what you came here to do."

"But you do," said Francis: and he wasn't taunting, Richard realised, he was _insisting_ , staring up at Richard. "You do."

Richard grabbed a fistful of his yellow hair. He hadn't remembered what that felt like, hadn't passed his fingers through Francis's hair in--the boundaries of his memory stopped there. It was soft and messy and dampened with sweat. He yanked hard, perhaps from the childish desire for a reaction, which he didn't quite receive: Francis jerked to one side but didn't break from staring at Richard, as if he was still expecting a response. He might have been. For that moment Richard was, in fact, tempted briefly to summon help. Then he shook his head, banished it from his mind, and said, "What were you going to say about her?"

His fingers were still in Francis's hair. Francis turned his head into his touch, maybe to spare himself some of the tension, and bared his throat in doing. "Are you going to listen to me?" he said, low.

"When was the first time?" In response, Francis's hand moved--Richard's darted out to slam his wrist down on the covers. "When was the first time you saw her?"

"You're very well aware of that," Francis said, puzzled: maybe even frustrated, by Richard's measure, but he ignored it. "It was a fiery occasion. But I don't suppose you mean 'saw her in her dress.' Do you know, I'll go to my grave knowing you were the difficult one, Richard, and absolutely no one will agree with me?"

Richard might've backhanded him again, but his grip tightened in his hair instead; he said, "She's seen more than that of you."

" _You've_ seen more of me," said Francis, "than she has."

He probably meant it as dismissive. Richard let go of him for a moment and Francis started to sit up; "Well," he mused, "you have."

Richard seized the collar of Francis's shirt and tore it down the middle, baring his collarbone and his sternum and the pale shapes of his shoulders. Here Francis flinched. He dragged his gaze back to Richard's and it seemed, for a moment, that he was doing something very difficult: he breathed, "Fine. Look at me, then, Richard. _Look_ at me."

Briefly, almost, Richard stopped: appalled and unable to look away. Then Francis leaned up and kissed him on the mouth. There, Richard supposed, he was still soft.

He did not push Francis away. He did take another handful of his hair--when they broke away from each other for air, Francis said, almost petulant, "You're still not listening to me."

"Shut up, Francis," said Richard, rather easily in fact, riding high on his own terror; "Don't fight me."

"I haven't been fighting you at all. I know you. You'd much rather I had." Francis didn't manage to suppress a wince as Richard dragged him up the bed by his hair, and scrambled up to accommodate; the tatters of his shirt hampered his movement a little ridiculously. His blood had run down his neck and onto his chest. Bruises were going to form eventually--Richard imagined where they would be, and pinned Francis's arm to the bed again.

He kissed Francis on the neck. He bit him. Francis cried out; Richard clapped his hand immediately over his mouth and saw Francis, quite against his position at the moment, roll his eyes. "You wanted this," Richard said.

Francis squirmed and said something under Richard's hand; after a moment Richard let up, and Francis said, under his breath: "You wanted this. Whether I did is rather beside the point, isn't it?"

Braced over him, Richard stared down at him. He was breathing more heavily than Francis was. That wasn't correct. But it was happening. "Let me up," Francis challenged him--challenged, rather than begged.

Richard dug his fingers into Francis's wrists.

Francis winced, and arched his back, and made a noise through his teeth somewhere shy of a whimper; "See," he said, and he sounded triumphant again.

Richard muffled him again, which was difficult when what he wanted was to shove his tongue down his throat: difficult, when he wanted to hear him scream. But there were few places one could be alone in Culter, and this was far from one of them. He thought pragmatically about the rest of their clothing; having thought, he let Francis up enough to turn him unceremoniously over by the shoulder and shove him face-down into the bed. Francis was starting to say something again; Richard had none of it, and clapped his hand over Francis's mouth and sank his teeth into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. At that, Francis definitely cried out, and arched his back again like a cat. Like a cat being mated. Richard levered the rest of his weight onto him.

He pressed him down; he made him feel his arousal against the small of his back, and was angered and a little disappointed that he didn't thrash. He spat on his fingers and yanked the rest of Francis's clothing down--it was too tough to rip--and pushed them inside of him. His intention wasn't kindness--nothing he was doing was for his brother's benefit, he told himself--but he wanted to feel him buck and squirm. He got the squirming, at least. Francis was smaller than him, too small for his hand, tight and unyielding; just then Richard wanted to feel him fight, like Francis had accused him, and push him down and tear him open. But he didn't; he just held Francis down and Francis flinched and cried out into the bedsheets.

"Shh." Richard was surprised to hear it was his own voice. "Shh. --Hush. Francis."

When he spread him with his fingers and shoved into him, he thought he heard Francis say something again: but it was cut off by Richard's hand, and then cut off by what sounded like a strangled sob as Francis scrabbled for purchase. His blood was all over his face now, and on his legs. Richard had never seen so much of it before--that was what struck him, more than the fairness of his narrow body. His own heart's blood, what really was inside of him. Richard could taste it and feel it. He passed his hand through Francis's hair, this time without gripping it. He kissed Francis on the back of the neck. He held him down and pushed into him as hard as he could manage, until he thought he could feel their bones crack.

He didn't think about when he was spent; he didn't stop then. He only stopped when his brother collapsed on both arms and stared, blankly, at the wall. Then he levered himself off him and took Francis's face in both his hands, murmuring something under his breath, something incoherent.

Francis stared at him; his pale eyes snapped back into focus. He said, after a moment--perfectly clear--"You are a damned impossible man. I hope Mother wrings your neck."

It was not what Richard had expected. He blinked, half-sitting up; he quickly trapped Francis's arm again, as if he was going anywhere, and stared back at him.

Francis let him, and rolled onto his back. "Save your guilty soul," he said, "for a different time, and a different audience--I meant you're _impossible_ and you won't listen to me. I suppose," he pushed his free hand back through his hair, "that I'll have to try again some other time. You're always confounding things, do you know that?"

Richard blinked at him; Francis said, "When I walk out of here, remember that I tried to talk to you."

"When you what, now?"

"When I walk out of here, Richard," said Francis, as if speaking to a child, "through the door, without waking anyone else." He looked like he was considering a laugh, in his deliberate way; instead his eyes just flashed. "Or were you planning on calling for my arrest in this condition?"

Richard said nothing.

"As I said." Francis looked at the ceiling. "When I walk out of here through the door."

* * *

As it happened, Francis's shirt was unsalvageable: so he rummaged for one of Richard's, which hung comically loose on him. Richard picked up his sword while this was happening; Francis ignored him completely. His face and neck were still tracked with his drying blood. He stood and walked at a stagger. He looked like exactly everything that had happened to him. Richard stood and watched him, grim, while he clung for a moment to the bedpost and looked very much like he was concentrating on something difficult. It was an expression Richard had only seen from time to time, faced with a book or a question Eloise had posed to him. He was always endeavouring to disguise it. Nothing was supposed to be difficult for Francis Crawford.

Richard offered him his arm, on impulse. The glare Francis levelled at him might've set Culter on fire all over again. "I draw the line at your magnanimity," he said.

"You're in no position to--" Richard began.

"I'm always in a position to draw lines. I've drawn a great many lines," said Francis, "in a great many positions. You would be surprised. Richard, consider--"

Richard might've let him finish; in fact, he had every intention to. But Francis, determined, hobbled his way to the door, and didn't finish; instead he unbarred the door. It was seldom in his brother's nature not to deliver the last word, and Richard half-waited for it expectantly--and didn't receive it, as Francis straightened up and walked into the darkened hallway, and left Richard by the mess of his own bed, holding a useless sword and covered in blood.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my gracious beta gogollescent!


End file.
